


pillowtalking

by seabear



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Making Out, just a coupla nerds kissing and being gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:52:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9156460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabear/pseuds/seabear
Summary: “We’re not leaving bed today,” Victor says, throwing a leg over Yuri’s waist and pulling the covers up over. “I decided.”





	

“We’re not leaving bed today,” Victor says, throwing a leg over Yuri’s waist and pulling the covers up over. “I decided.”

Being back in Hasetsu is surreal. There’s a clear separation in his mind now between who he became as a figure skater these last months, and who he had always been inside his childhood bedroom, like a schism of existence split between before and after. He doesn’t know whether to feel like his life at home had been fabricated, or if his life on the ice had been a dream. He’s caught in the somewhere not quite in-between, and the only thing tethering him to any sense of true, tangible reality is--

“You’re trapped.” Octopus limbs wind around him. “There is no escape, Katsuki Yuri. No hope. Give in now.”

He grunts, pushing onto his back, head falling to the side to squint at Victor, blurred edges sharpening. “Shouldn’t I have been consulted about this?” 

Bright eyes dance, painfully awake. “You were asleep, so I made an executive decision.”

“You can’t call every choice you make on a day to day basis an executive decision.”

Victor peers up at him over the edge of the comforter. “I’ve made the executive decision to ignore you.”

Yuri sighs. It’s only 30% exasperation. Mostly, it’s fondness. “I was going to go for a run.”

“The body needs proper rest,” Victor reminds him, snuggling in closer. “Which is why we will stay in bed. All day.”

“What about bathroom breaks?”

“Except for bathroom breaks.”

“What about food?”

“Except for food.”

“What if Maccachin needs to--”

“Oh no, it has happened again!” Victor says, in long, slow Russian. “I have forgotten English. I no longer understand my Yuri.”

Yuri flushes. Victor does this when he speaks Russian--when he pretends he’s forgotten all English and Japanese--he only refers to Yuri as _my Yuri._

“Speak to me, my Yuri!” Victor sings, over dramatic and loud, the English syllables that usually sound stunted on his tongue pouring out like liquid in Russian. Yuri, when he was a teenager, made a very valiant attempt to learn the language because of Victor. He used to entertain himself on the train to school every morning, getting lost in daydreams. The look of surprise he’d have when Yuri introduced himself as one of Victor’s biggest fans in perfect, accented Russian. Several problems--one being that Russian is hard, and unlike English where he was continually exposed through movies, music, and schoolwork, it was a self-reliant process. Second being that even if he became fluent, the chances of him ever mustering up the courage to approach Victor in any setting was slim to none. Still, he got pretty far with it, never quite learning to speak it well but able to understand common words and phrases. The past year with Victor has helped him remember a lot of it.

He grabs Yuri’s face with his hands, squishing his cheeks and forcing his mouth into an unnatural pucker. “Please, say something I’ll understand! Anything!"

Muffled, in perfect Russian (courtesy of Yurio), “You’re ridiculous.”

Instead of retorting, he plants a big raspberry kiss against Yuri’s mouth with such gusto he knocks them back, almost off of the bed. Laughs bubble up from Yuri’s gut, vibrating up his sternum and erupting into the cold air of the room. 

Boxes pile up in the corners, the effort of half a day’s work and three full days of unabashed lazing around, sinking into hot springs, running down to the rink, twisting around each other, into each other in a place that was worn at the edges, so perfectly snug. _“Yakov wants me to do press. Formally announce my return as soon as I go back,"_ Victor had whined their first night back in Japan, curled up at the kotatsu with steaming cups of tea. _“We’ll do that later, yes? Much, much later. I’m thinking two weeks, minimum. And anyway, I’m sure you want time to say goodbye to everyone.”_

As much as Yuri is excited to be going to Russia, as excited as he is for this new chapter, as excited he is to be doing both with Victor...it’s also so incomprehensibly huge. That it’s real, that it’s happening, that Victor is in his bed. That anyone is in his bed, pressing in so close. 

“Your breath is gross.” Yuri’s still laughing, trying to twist away.

“Are you sure?” Victor asks. “Maybe you need a second taste to be sure.”

It’s only when he rolls onto his front to get away from Russian spit that he become aware of the weight between his legs, dragging against the mattress. _Oh dear god._ He knew, at some point, this would become an issue. Ever since Victor had started keeping a steady habit back in China, of crawling into Yuri’s bed after drinking too much, Yuri knew it was only a matter of time until something like this happened. He curls against the wall, yanking at the covers. “If I don’t have to be anywhere, then why don’t you let me sleep.”

“Sleeping wasn’t what I really had in mind,” Victor says, but offers nothing else. Yuri’s heart hammers inside his chest. “Yuri,” the bed dips. “Why are you so far away?”

Sweat. So much sweat. Buckets of sweat.

“It’s cold in here.” Victor shuffles closer. _“Yuri.”_

Long arms and legs wrap around him, cold nose snuffling against the back of Yuri’s neck. His breath catches at hands on his hips with thumbs drawing slow circles against the skin where his shirt’s ridden up. Where _Victor’s_ shirt has ridden up, he realizes. He’d stolen it out of Victor’s suitcase and worn it to bed with the strange, blood thrumming hope that Victor would notice, and…

Yuri isn’t sure what he’d been hoping for. Some kind of reaction. But of course, Victor only notices things when it suits him, not when Yuri actually really wants him to. He inhales sharply, Victor manhandling him onto his back, pinning him like a butterfly behind glass (which is in no way shape or form helping anything going on beneath his waistband). Yuri’s eyes slam shut, and he waits for impact.

“Oh,” Victor’s sounds genuinely surprised, like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing to Yuri. He wiggles his hips. “I’m flattered.”

“I should--” Yuri moves to slip out and slip away and probably lock himself in the bathroom. 

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Victor says. “It’s very natural, to wake up like this.”

“It’s not--” he thinks better of it and snaps his mouth shut. 

This thing--what they are--is still very new. Yuri wonders if it will ever feel well worn and broken in. He still struggles with what it is, with what it means. Victor’s not just his coach. Victor’s not just his friend. He’s not more or less but distinctly other in a slot that has always been gaspingly empty, now overflowing with a fan of silver hair across pillows, the low dip of bright eyes, bell like voice chiming loud and true, cutting through all the static. During competition, he could hold up the facade of the show for the cameras, for the audience, for the world. Suddenly, back in the place it all started last spring, hugging and kissing and gold rings as good luck charms all give way to something so quiet and intimate in the soft morning light of Yuri’s bedroom. There is no room to hide here. There is no room for show. Only two bodies tucked into a single bed, tangled sheets, shared breath.

And Victor doesn’t hold back with physical affection. He holds and clings for dear life and god, if Yuri doesn’t love it. If he doesn’t crave it. In every hug, in every knot of fingers, in every nuzzle and squeeze and bump of hips, knees, shoulders--he feels every moment he’s ever pulled away from someone else’s touch. He feels every time he could’ve held on but didn’t. He feels every night he went to bed, room dark and quiet, turning onto his side and feeling his stomach hang out over the waistband of his sweats. Thinking _this is fine, this is fine, I can be alone._

“It’s okay,” Victor says, low and soft, voice like body warm sheets, like a slant of yellow light. “Me, too.”

He sinks into Yuri, and there’s the undeniable press against Yuri’s hip. Oh, Yuri thinks, and it’s all he can think. All he has the chance to think, because Victor’s lips are right under his ear, pressing so softly, again and again along the line of his jaw. A small desperate _mnn_ escapes through Yuri’s teeth. 

“I want to kiss you breathless,” Victor says, and Yuri’s arms shoot out, winding around his neck.

He never thought he would have this. With anyone. And to suddenly have it with Victor, of all people, it makes his entire soul fight to burst through the seams of his body, each stitch of skin stretched and threadbare. 

The comforter falls from the bed, and it’s just them on the sheets, hot hands sliding up Yuri’s arched back as Victor settles between his spread legs.

“Is this,” Victor mumbles against the corner of Yuri’s mouth, “my shirt?”

A coy flutter of eyelashes. “Is it? Sorry, I must’ve taken it by--”

“Liar.” Victor surges forward, catching Yuri’s open mouth. The robe Victor had worn to bed slips off of his shoulders as his tongue slips past Yuri's parted lips, slow and deliberate movements forcing half-formed, wholly embarrassing sounds from the back of Yuri's throat. Lips smacking, the gentle creak of the mattress, the slide of friction between their clothes.

He should...do something back, right? He should touch Victor. He should--

His fumbling hand shoots down between them, palming at the front of Victor’s sweats. There’s a low gasp, teeth pulling almost painfully at Yuri’s bottom lip, letting it go with a lovely, loud pop. Yuri pushes with the heel of his palm, watching the crease between Victor’s eyebrows, the twitch of his swollen lips. A warm hand encircles his wrist, stilling Yuri’s movements, and their eyes lock. For a single, horrified moment Yuri’s brain screams--he messed up, he did something wrong, he didn’t--

“I wanted this to be about you.” Victor laughs, soft and breathy. “Somehow, when it comes to Yuri, I always seem to be in over my head.”

“Which is unbelievable,” Yuri says, heart thudding loud and constant in his ears, “considering the size of it.”

A cocked eyebrow, and Victor’s body crests like a wave, hips rolling down. “Would you like to consider the size of something else?”

“Yes,” he says, automatically, not an ounce of hesitation. He feels a burn crawl up his chest to his hairline. “I--I didn’t mean--”

“Everyone thinks Katsuki Yuri is so innocent." Victor takes his hand away, presses his weight down. “No one suspects what an actual demon you are.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Yuri finds his voice between a sigh and a whimper, “most of the time it’s unintentional.”

“That makes it all the more scary.”

“Well,” Yuri says between sucking kisses under Victor’s jawline. “You helped to...create this monster.”

“Mm,” Victor hums. “Does that make me Victor Frankenstein?”

Yuri pulls back, blinking up at him.

“You know.” Victor smiles brightly. “From the book.”

“We’re making out,” Yuri says slowly, “and you want to talk about books?”

“Have you not read it?” Victor steadies himself, weight braced against his forearms. “It’s very good. I could lend you a--”

Yuri flips them, thighs straddling Victor’s lap and grinding down. He’s been waiting so long for this, he’s ached for this, and now he’s finally letting himself have it. He’ll be damned if he lets Victor get distracted now, fingers threading through silver hair and holding him still long enough to resume kissing. Long, pauseless, enthusiastic kissing. The kind of kissing Yuri thinks he was designed to do, down to his molecular structure; kissing Victor Nikiforov endlessly.

Though, for all his gumption, he still squeaks when Victor’s hands slip past the elastic of his sweats at the small of his back, palming and squeezing.

Even in his fantasies, he was a bystander. He would lie back and think of things being done to him in the dark, no one having to see him, no one having to touch the parts of him he didn’t want to have touched. Carefully orchestrated passivity where everything was done to him without him having to say.

Victor isn’t like those fantasies. Victor requires active participation. Victor loves when Yuri’s vocal, giving as much as he takes. It’s this wonderful nauseating inertia that’s pulled Yuri out of the easy dark and into a bright place where nothing can be hidden.

Victor sits up, one hand braced against the bed while his free arm wraps around Yuri’s middle, and they rock together in small half-circled movements. Their rhythm is slow, easy, all the momentum of urgency that Yuri tries to take lowered to a simmer by soft, soft words spoken against his racing pulse. 

“Do you ever think about,” he licks his lips, sighing as Victor’s hips rise up to meet his. “About being inside of me?”

Victor hisses in Russian, something Yuri doesn’t know, and then, “I think about everything with you.”

His breath catches in his throat. _“Victor.”_

He shakes apart in Victor’s arms, gasping. He doesn’t even realize he’s falling until his back hits the bed, Victor over him. His belly gives a low, useless pull at the sight of Victor’s expression breaking open, flushed bright red down to his chest. He hooks his arm around the back of Victor’s neck and pulls down, meeting in the middle for a hard kiss. A final shift of Victor’s hips, and they melt in a collective, ragged exhale. They part to breathe, and then slide back together again, softly this time, longer this time, again and again.

Victor rolls over, collapsing next to him against the mattress, his arms out and a ridiculous smile stretching his face. Yuri covers his own with his hands, smiling behind his fingers. That happened. That just _happened._ He wonders, dimly, if this means he’s not a virgin anymore. Not a total one, at least, he thinks, biting back a smile as his heart sings inside of his chest. Pushing sweaty hair out of his face, he sits up.

Victor catches him by the waist, still looking wonderfully pink and debauched. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“The--we--” Yuri blinks, rapid, flush catching fire on his exposed skin. “I’m covered in--”

“Hm.” Victor slithers down the bed, ducking his head. There’s a flash of pink tongue.

Yuri kicks him in the face, propelling Victor onto the floor. He only half means it.

“I’m sorry!” Yuri shrieks, high tailing it down the hallway towards the bathroom. “I can only handle so much at once!”

 

/end.

**Author's Note:**

> these boys are gonna be the end of me
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at [chillnaxin](http://chillnaxin.tumblr.com/)


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